Suddenly, music is an obligation

The way I used to live at the beginning of my twenties—cognizant only of my immediate surroundings (except for news overheard being discussed by people who owned television sets), imagining I played not a starring but at least a notable role in my small circle of friends and acquaintances, concerned with my minimal responsibilities and things I wanted to do, pondering whether my love life was working out or not, and above all, not comparing myself to others—the way I used to live might have been insular, but it was not needlessly stressful.

Even the poetry I wrote was focused on personal happenings, things I saw, heard, experienced, that struck me as unusual or important, or maybe unbalanced and in need of re-configuring; feelings I had that were pressuring me from the inside but not demanding anything dramatic. I employed gentle irony, tried to understand others, accepted the situation I was in because it was all new to me—adult life—and was interesting. I’m thinking mostly of my early Cambridge days living with Drew, our neighborhood friends, my job selling popcorn at the Orson Welles Cinema, frequenting of Charles Street coffeehouses in Boston, being the supportive girlfriend when Drew would play there. Most things were not “heavy.” I thought I’d always be working part-time; always have hours to sit on the front porch teaching myself to play the recorder, always have freedom of mind to bond with my electric typewriter and create odes to my motorcycle and to my Frye boots and to the frizzy-haired lady who lived upstairs with her toddler and was on welfare, always be eager to make plain vanilla love when Drew was in the mood. I developed a determination back then to never become a “professional” anything; college was not in the cards, I thought; neither was taking my art, music, or writing seriously. It would have been too much work, and it would have over-defined me.

In 1971, inhaling the last of the hippie ethos in the air around Harvard Square, it seemed to me that life was for enjoyment, if possible, and though I knew there was suffering in the world, I wasn’t experiencing much of it myself. Having crashed and burned early on, I was rising again from the ashes. Drew and many of our friends had experienced the same thing; we were all alumni of the famous mental institution a few towns away, and so understood each other and handled feelings and ideas with care.

I very much wanted to be part of an “established” couple, yet I did not want to be part of the “establishment.” We had no intention to marry. But the tentacles of conformity and patriarchy were already reaching out toward me. When Drew had his motorcycle accident and returned to his parents’ household to recover, I was forced to throw in my lot with more conventional young adults. The Marsh Folk, as I called them, still trying to be whimsical. These roommates, who were total strangers at first, were pursuing “careers” of sorts, and I was slightly lost. My full-time, minimum-wage paste-up job that I managed to get at South Shore Publishing Company did not compare, and I knew it was only temporary. Because we pooled our money to pay rent on this house by the sea, I benefitted disproportionately. What came out of that situation, for me, was a lover and then an actual husband; a woman friend who encouraged me to apply to art school; and a taste for luxury, or at least high ceilings.

I am not sure why I’m rehashing this background stuff. Because obviously, things are different now. I did keep my inadvertent vow to never become a “professional” anything, but nothing I see around me reassures me that I was right in any way about that, or even “true to myself.” I eventually got paid for writing, yes. I got paid for music sometimes, too. I got paid for doing graphic design and for teaching it. None of it brought in enough money, or felt just right. My various activities seemed to jostle amongst themselves for supremacy, but all of them lost big-time to the need to make a “decent” living—as a secretary, it turned out. Meanwhile, the new Alabama husband I found (and bonded with) pursued his artful interest (magic) perfectly and consistently, meagre as its rewards were. We’ve scraped by, basically. If we hadn’t bought this tiny house in 1998, we’d be in bad shape. The culture changed, the cost of living soared—at first slowly, then drastically—and now, suddenly, we are old folks. I’m older than he is; I’m verging on “doddering,” and I’m still confused about what I’m supposed to be doing.

“Do what you feel,” they say, but I have ALL the feelings (or none). Nothing stands out. Some activities are self-perpetuating, like songwriting when I’m halfway through a song and want to finish, like reading when the material interests me, like cooking when there’s someone there to enjoy the food. Other activities, like going to open mics and putting myself on display, are not self-perpetuating, because there are no rewards for such as me, and my very being balks at having to do it. I enjoyed performing with my band in the 1990s. I do not enjoy performing solo and having to accompany myself. Something almost always goes wrong, and I re-learn every week that I “should” have studied and done it “professionally” long ago if I wanted to be any “good.” I do it mostly to increase the chances of people (whoever they are) suddenly developing an interest in my SONGS. But they don’t. And probably won’t.

Unfortunately, I do not care for most other local musicians’ repertoires. The few solo performers I know and have heard frequently do not give me much pleasure (with one or two exceptions). I realize that “songs” these days, covers and originals, are more about “mood” than narrative or harmonic content. And I presume my relatively interesting (to me) narrative and harmonic content may be lost on most (at least here in Huntsville) and might come across as wordy or pointlessly complicated. Yet, since I have started going out to play (when I have the energy), I find it difficult to ignore that possibility. I feel obligated to keep my “foot in the door” in the real world of other people, despite my worry and embarrassment for every misstep. I have no idea why some of my new acquaintances get full-on paying “gigs” and I do not, except for the farmer’s market last summer and open studio nights in the hallway at Lowe Mill and one or two short sets at ukulele events (at least back when I was taking uke lessons with a local personality and curator of such shows).

I have several excuses: 1) I am very old, and so I look weird. I’ve always had an overly-earnest unsmiling expression when singing, with wide-open mouth slightly twisted, and a pained look in my eyes. Add to that my 74-year-old wrinkles (not just on my face, but all over my body), and my now-too-thin, unsteady, scarecrow figure in out-of-date garb, and I am just not something anyone would want to look at. (Recording is the way to go for the likes of me, but that’s another story.)

My instrument is also a problem; the ukulele, even though I strum a baritone, is not taken seriously. I am getting sick of the sound of it myself, even though I have worked very hard to play at a higher level of expertise on it than most local ukulele players. Even if people like my “act”—sometimes they say they do—I don’t, and won’t, get hired by proprietors of bars and restaurants. And perhaps I don’t want to get hired. I don’t make myself available on social media, don’t have the right videos to show, and I am not prepared to play and sing for three hours until late at night while people talk and drink and pay no attention except for the requisite clapping at the end (which means nothing).

And here we come to another problem: I no longer drink. Yes, abstinence has finally settled upon me. I foresee no change in that condition. But my relentless sobriety has not helped me make new friends, at least not the kind of friendships I see others enjoying. I will never be able to joke, goof around, make faces for selfies, and be an all-around good sport the way other (especially female) musicians seem to do. And all but a few of them are genuinely more skilled than I am, although they usually apply those skills to songs that seem dull to me (as I mentioned). Of course, I must never say this out loud! I must pretend that it’s all very worthy. But my recent experiences listening to local “regular” music, even bands, have made me question whether or not I like music at all anymore. Thank god for jazz (which I indulge in as occasional singer, harmonica player, and mostly appreciator, because, well, the personnel are often closer to my age, and it’s much more interesting musically).

Finally, and this has to do with age also: I need written music to get through most songs. I have tried using a computer tablet, but it doesn’t work for me, so I’m up there with my music stand, portable light, reading glasses, and a three-ring binder. What a pity. Unacceptable.

Social media is killing me these days. Almost every Facebook friend on my sparse new “Anna Kamilla” page is a musician. And they post notices from many other musicians. There is no night of the week in Huntsville that doesn’t have music being performed in multiple places. All of these players and bands (except maybe for the heavy metal ones) I feel I’m supposed to “support” for the sake of the local “scene” or to prove my loyalty to a new acquaintance whom I don’t have the actual energy to have a “real” relationship with (if anyone has those anymore). And it is often impossible to decide WHICH show to attend, since everything is happening simultaneously.

But, to my dismay, I find myself not WANTING to go out at ALL unless I would have a chance to play or sing. Looking at all these opportunities others have is very confusing and daunting, and my jealousy (there is some of that) devolves into dismay, guilt, and even disgust. Why is this activity of playing and singing in front of people so revered? Who goes out to listen? I was never that person who went out to listen! Not to most of the music on offer locally, anyway. I remember concerts I attended in the old New England days during which I paid no attention and even wandered away from. My likes, in terms of music, are few, and that’s the truth.

I actually LIKE my own recent songs, but not as performed on the ukulele by me. I am almost finished recording all of them with Jim Cavender at Startlingly Fresh Records, and it remains to be seen what will be done with them. Since I cannot bring myself to advertise or promote or tout myself, probably nothing will happen. (The songs for my “musical” are another matter. I think most of them are pretty good, but they are of an evidently unpopular genre, and my home recordings using digital instruments are amateurish.)

And now I’m not sure why I’m re-hashing this detailed MUSICAL stuff in addition to the old-days stuff! There are many other things that demand thinking about! Like my brother Brian’s situation—he’s still living here with no end in sight. My mounting anger about this is having to find subtle outlets (like making loud disparaging remarks to the cat) because I cannot risk actually talking about it with Brian. Our house also needs some major repairs (toilet), which we can’t afford for several reasons. I also realized a couple of months ago that I should increase my exercising if I want to stay alive, and have done so, which means I have slightly less time for other things. Going to the gym cuts into my “psyching up” time at home, without which I would not start a session on ANY project, so work on the “musical” songs has slowed down.

Why do I need to accomplish anything? Why do I feel I’m running out of time? Why do I feel my life’s been worth nothing if I don’t have a huge completed THING to point to and say, “I did that!” I’ve actually completed quite a few things in my life, including scholarly papers that I’m proud of. But I want to have completed something that ordinary people might get a kick out of, I really do. I couldn’t get serious about this before now because DEATH wasn’t imminent. Now it is, I guess. I give myself another ten years, but not much more. My numb feet and bad balance, my aches and pains, my odd thoughts that blur the lines between sleeping and waking, my growing animosity toward certain types of other humans. My time is about up. No one will want to put up with me much longer, and I don’t want to need anyone’s “help.” The least I can do is provide some parting entertainment (which will wind up seeming completely from another “era,” incomprehensible to younger people, and probably something Artificial Intelligence could have come up with anyway).

I have forgotten to mention that Maggie is gone. Her kidney disease was getting serious. We took her to the vet's for euthanasia between Christmas and New Year's, and buried her in the backyard on New Year's Eve day. Perhaps some of my angst about all of the above is an expression of grief. I won't be getting another dog.

Ups and downs

I am not surprised that it’s been nine months since I last posted something here. I’ve been struggling to focus on the things I believe I want to do, and exploring the landscape of psychological discomfort, learning my way around. A few weeks after my February post, I simply quit drinking. It felt like the time had come. It’s not that I enjoy this dismally sober and brittle state of mind, but I’m getting used to it. Sure, there have been a few outbursts (two of them directed at brother Brian) of the sort that used to be fueled by mild spirits (I rarely ever indulged in anything other than beer or wine, but of course it’s not the type of alcohol, it’s the amount that one must be concerned about). This might be the longest span of time I’ve traversed without the sort of relief I was used to—since moving to Huntsville in 1981. At that time I’d utilized AA meetings during the summer to motivate both sobriety and dieting. Upon encountering Alabama's most Christian-oriented AA meeting (I should have tried others!) that October, I gave up. Now I’m simply on my own. Just what I do not need at my age.

In addition to anger, or maybe even paranoia (Brian would call it that, and has), I’ve had gushes of anxiety. Not every minute, but in relation to perceived and forseen difficulties in the world. My little dog was diagnosed with kidney failure; she was throwing up and slowing down, and I made an appointment to have her euthanized (to avoid what I’m going through now), but was talked out of it by Russell and the vet at that very appointment. I’m glad Maggie’s still here after all, but the expensive probiotic pills she’s supposed to take have to be refrigerated. Can’t put them in warm food or they’ll be ruined. The result is that I stand over her, for long minutes, begging her to eat. I can slip the pills under her nose when she starts and she’ll gulp them down. But I still have to wait until her appetite gets going, which cuts into the time I have for worrying about other things! The cat has been a pain, too, meowing in a way that makes me want to kill her. I do not kill her. She’s old, and has decided that there’s always something I can do for her whenever she sees me, simply because I have not ever failed to respond, sometimes by tossing her to the other side of the bed, but often by giving her treats. These animal needs are constantly buzzing around in my home environment. It’s not world-broadening, it’s world-shrinking. Just what I do not need at my age.

So much musical activity going on since February: attendance at many in-person open mics, and open mics online. Cyberspace is a good venue for me: the words and chords are on the screen where I can see them without making it obvious that I’m using that "crutch" (which can't be avoided in person; I'm the not-OK boomer with the notebook and music stand). An online open mic scheduled for the evening, songs chosen, a few run-throughs earlier in the day, a proper audio setup, and I’m ready to emote and deliver, close up, with a dark background. I’m told I’m very good by more than one person, and not in the way that everyone gets congratulated, but in private emails. Gratifying? Maybe, but in-person local situations are more fraught. I’ve made so many mistakes, technical (capo falling off) and performance-related (missed or wrong chords, losing my place on the lyric sheet, letting go of the mystical energy rope). I’ve sat by myself at a table, wondering how to socialize (without beer), and just as I was making new friends, the place of everyone's favorite open mic (Salty Nut Brewery) closed. I’m now recording songs for another album, slowly but surely. The experience is humbling. Just what I do not need at my age.

Yes, Brian’s still here (after a year and four months), and Russell and I are trying to prod him to announce his plans. Of course he doesn’t have any (I wrote a song about that, of course). It’s at times like these that I understand cousin Denise’s horror at my situation. No choices. No room to move. But there will be a move anyway—Russell and I are moving to the smaller front room for our bedroom, and he’ll use the big room for his magic studio and office, the way it was supposed to be from the start. No more waking up because Brian is talking in his sleep! But Brian himself makes me anxious, simply by his hiding, his postponing, his relentless depression that he refuses to seek help for and yet makes obvious, and his Coffey know-it-all-ness continuing unabated despite his dire, dependent situation. During one of the aforementioned outbursts I accused him of hating me, but now I think it was me who perhaps hated him at that moment. I’ve also quite recently accused Joy of “despising” me, led there by her obvious avoidance of me (except socially at poetry meetings) since our final zoom session a couple of months ago. These days her reasons for living are to save the Earth and destroy capitalism; any deviance from that path or, god forbid, impatience with it, will earn you her silence, if not disdain. I feel I’ve lost that friendship, which makes me wonder how it ever came to be in the first place. But I know it was real for many years, and there's something that was once important missing now. Just what I do not need at my age.

Recently I’ve run out of time for the weekly “women writers reading” zoom event on Monday evenings, I’ve struggled through a last 40Days program and almost lost my enjoyment of writing, and I’m taking weekly jazz ukulele lessons from a smiling old gnome at Harmony Sound, causing me to question whether I ever played adequately at all. Also, due to lack of privacy and Russell’s commitment to driving homeless Dave and Kim around whenever requested during the afternoons when Brian's out of the house at the coffeeshop, there’s been no sex for months. I thought that wouldn’t bother me, but now after many months, it does. Will moving to the front room at night bring that back (in its limited form)? Without being able to look forward to the relief of a couple of beers or a glass of wine with sparkling water, I have to take everything at face value, and it’s rough, and nothing flows smoothly except for practicing ukulele (the lull of repetition). The moment of finally putting my head down on the pillow at night is the closest I get to pleasure now, but then the cat ruins it by walking on my neck or pushing under the covers next to me but never staying put once there. However, for the first time since I had those gulps from the wine pouch, on the rollercoaster at Paragon Park with Ralph in 1966, I think I can do without. I really do. Just what I need at my age.

Coming to a bad end?

Does my penchant for self-examination (often resulting in dead-end puzzlement) mean I’m really a “narcissist”? I can’t be the judge of that, but of course there are times when my behavior causes problems that I have to ponder, or feel guilty about, or feel victimized about.

Sure, it’s alcohol-related, I suppose. But the expressions that arise from me while I’m drunk surely have some deeper origin than just a random (unpleasant) release of inhibitions.

I’ve antagonized people close to me once again, especially Russell. I did not respond well, in fact, I responded like a two-year-old being removed from a party, to his arrival at The Nook, where I sat feeling relatively comfortable with Joy and Susan Davis after our monthly WriteNightOut where we respond to prompts, write, and read aloud. Beer was involved, perhaps more for me than the other two, I’m not sure. But then, Joy says I’m a “lightweight” when it comes to tolerance. The name of the beer was “Pernicious,” and I had three of them. On a relatively empty stomach.

So, my two girlfriends called Russell “behind my back” to come fetch me from The Nook, where, our meeting being more-or-less over, I’d continued loudly complaining about something-or-other (perhaps about Brian’s expectation of my not-worrying about him even after the extreme circumstances I found him in; or perhaps about my newly-discovered resentment—thanks to my cousin Denise’s bragging about her own lifestyle—of Russell’s never having had a ‘day job’ all these years.)

When I saw Russell walk in to the patio where we were, sitting at a table with gas flames flickering on top (which Eco-Joy did not object to, so what’s up with THAT?)… I was surprised, then confused, then very angry, VERY ANGRY. Russell says I “traumatized” him by beating my fists against his very substantial chest, but I felt I was fighting for my autonomy, my psychic life, very much the same way I felt I had to verbally fight Felicia over Zoom when she criticized my songwriting last year. I know I shouted “Fuck you” to Joy and Susan as Russell pulled me out of there and I continued to fight him and to shout (he says). When he got me to the entryway of The Nook, he pushed me very hard up against a post, twice. It didn’t hurt, it just was evidence of his upset-ness. I suppose I’m sorry for that. I am still convinced that if I’d been left alone I’d have driven home perfectly well. I’ve done that so often, and from that exact location, and in even worse shape. True to the “drunk” profile, I thought I was pretty much OK. Was I? I don’t even know.

My yelling got my vocal cords seriously strained (can’t sing right!), and my relationship with Russell is strained, and now he wants to accompany me to every outing I plan, including open mics and obligatory attendance at fellow ukulele players’ gigs. That’s fine; we’ve had fun so far, but he may get tired of it, and I still feel that my much-vaunted ‘independence’ is threatened. These, though, are superficial concerns.

My main preoccupation now is: Why is this happening at this time in my life? Back in the summer of 2019 there was an incident which Russell doesn’t remember with as much hurt: when I fell off a porch leaving a party of our friends, carrying a half-rejected food offering. My foot slipped inside my sandal, which might have happened despite the five beers I think I had. I hurt my hip and leg, I let go of Maggie (Sycamore fetched her) and also shouted at that time. I had unsightly bruises for weeks.

If I am a sort of ‘functional’ alcoholic, it’s kind of low-level. My intake would not sustain a ‘real’ alcoholic. I suppose I have a weird response to any alcohol at all. I’ve tried, over the years, to abstain. But I’ve never had peace of mind in any circumstances except for that (physical) mood after a couple of beers or glasses of wine. Peace of mind, you’d think, would be a reward of getting through the working years and having some money come in regularly. Maybe it’s not even ‘peace of mind’ I want, but just a sense of relaxation and a conviction that I’m good enough to hang out with people without having to GIVE or PERFORM or HELP others. Having been instructed as a child that simply being there was not enough, I’ve had a sense of obligation, even resentment, about almost anything I do—rather than a feeling of simply WANTING to do something. I’ve never really known what I ‘wanted,’ and have been angered by that very question. How the hell do I know what I want?! No one ever encouraged me to pay attention to THAT. With the result now that that is ALL I PAY ATTENTION TO.

“What is wrong with me?” Is one question, bringing on the filthy flood of memories false and true, and then the counter-attack, “Maybe nothing. Maybe this is how you’re supposed to be.” Then the reality: “You’re really endangering your social relations, the ones that keep you afloat, such as your marriage and close friendships.” But maybe I should have sunk to the bottom long ago and found a different way up to the surface, I don’t know. I do not like depending on others, so this scenario is going to get worse, NO DOUBT, as I get older and more feeble in various ways.

The glaring truth that I DO fuck up pretty badly (occasionally) CLEARLY does not help meliorate my chronic lack of pleasure or satisfaction with myself or my circumstances. Without at least some ‘peace’ with myself, it’s pretty hard to get through the day. I have willpower, and I can get a few things done, but I take no satisfaction in these things, really.

 

There are always more things to do, and some of them seem almost impossible.
I have a trunk and suitcases full of my mother’s memorabilia. I have an office-ful of my own. What am I supposed to do with all that? Projects to organize it disintegrate. No one cares anyway.

Yes, I take myself too seriously. I keep half-believing that there’s a reason I’m HERE. Am I supposed to write and sing songs? Am I supposed to just write? For whom, now that I’ve deprived myself of Facebook through my own stupidity (on the same night I cursed out my loved ones at The Nook, but later, when I thought I’d calmed down and a new musical acquaintance, James Leo, asked me to send him a code in Messenger.) Eager to make up for my transgressions earlier that evening, and wrongly believing James was hapless and might likely NEED my help, I responded cooperatively to the scammer’s message, thus doubling my bad luck and poisoning (with regret and attempts to get a response from FB) the hours that I try now to fill with reasonable small creative or pedestrian achievements that never make me feel better about myself anyway.

Shouldn’t knowing that 20,000 people died in the earthquake rubble in Turkey and Syria this week…never having strummed a few chords at an open mic…be a modifying factor? It should, but it isn’t. The sick feeling I have about THAT is different from the blank feeling I have about my own inner self and its puzzles and shortcomings. Right now a perspective from the outside (such as Russell’s) is only humbling me to the point of paralysis. I really want to feel better. A glass of wine will do the trick for a little while, won’t it?

An assemblage of concerns...

I just finished trying to record a song (in the studio I’ve been in before, with the person I’ve worked with before), and something was captured but I’m not sure it was worth capturing. It was a lament about David Foster Wallace’s untimely demise using his short story “Forever Overhead” as a theme. It’s getting so that I’ll write a song about anything. There was fingerpicking that I practiced for hours but was still unable to do perfectly, and there was singing that I hadn’t planned to do that seemed to be in a voice other than my own. This was the first step toward ANOTHER “album” and I’m not sure it was the right step. I could go on about the details, and how the next song will be a re-do of “Step Nine,” which is also fingerpicking, and after that I’m DONE with the sensitive acoustic stuff.

But what does this have to do with the price of eggs? Oh, yeah, there’s INFLATION going on, as well as payments on my “new” car which means I can’t spend anything extra on anything, and yet, here I am paying for recording services. It’s a bargain, though—I’m lucky. At my age, why am I so involved in this enterprise? I know I’ve asked that question before. My only answer is that focusing on music is safer emotionally, than a lot of other things. I’m beginning to think I’m a secret narcissist.

Russell doesn’t have much lined up in terms of magic shows, and I know that affects him. He’s spent his entire life perfecting his trade, and it must be difficult to not have an opportunity to perform. He does other helpful things in the world that seem to be excessive (like driving the homeless Dave L. around) but I understand that these deeds are purely beneficent, unlike doing things around the house that I might criticize. I wish I were a more positive force, but it turns out I’m a judgmental force. If I am any “force” at all.

Brother Brian is still here, and that’s good. I have no idea how this will turn out because I don’t know where Brian will go from here or when. I’m not sure I want him to go at all! In the meantime, it means that Russell and my “sex life” is limited (lack of privacy), but it was going in that direction anyway. There is a lot more between me and Russell than that, however.

And now youngest brother Ray may have some kind of blood disease (like leukemia?). He’s in the hospital for tests. This is a slowly settling weight on all of us siblings.

Here’s the stupid topper: Marianne O. requested (more than once) that I send her my CD. On the CD is a song about her (“It Ain’t Me or You, Babe”) that is NOT flattering. No names, no identifiable details, but she may recognize some descriptions. I was postponing sending it, but Russell mailed the package that I left on the table. So it’s too late. All I can do is be honest if she asks any questions. She’s wanting to “communicate” again, but who knows why? I tell myself I’m willing to be straight with her, but I may not even get the chance. What have I gotten from her except the dubious thrill of knowing someone who is an excellent musician? She did encourage me to record my songs, but she doesn’t consider me a contender, and she dislikes my email writing style (which is all I’ve got, really).

Also, I feel I’m not giving enough energy to various REAL friendships due to the home situation (which takes my attention whether it needs it or not) and the growing focus on practicing and writing songs. I’m actually PROUD of myself for giving enough time to music finally. And yet, there’s guilt. There always was.